He had picked her up even though she was already too big, just so her bare feet would not touch the cold floor, and he’d carried her downstairs and into his study. He’d held her at the window, where the cold came through the glass and lodged straight into her heart, like a razorblade.

“Look,” he whispered. “Snow.”

She had never seen snow before, except in TV shows and movies. It had looked to her like the stars were flaking out of the sky. It had looked like thousands of fireflies in the moonlight; like breathlessness, like time stopping, like the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

Then, she had loved him.

It was unfair that people could pretend to be one thing when they were really something else. That they would get you on their side and then do nothing but fail, and fail, and fail again. People should come with warnings, like cigarette packs: involvement would kill you over time.

When the phone rang, she jumped; she’d forgotten there was a house phone, and for one confused moment she thought she was hearing an alarm.

“Are you going to get that?” Trenton said, watching her, and making no attempt to get up.

It took her a minute to locate the working phone since there were a dozen telephones from different eras crowded on a shelf next to the desk. Finally, on the fourth ring, she found it. It was only when she went to pick up the phone that she realized her hands were shaking.

“Walker,” she said past the tightness in her chest.

There was no response. Minna thought at first the line was dead, but then she heard a rustle, the unmistakable sound of someone breathing. She was suddenly on high alert. Instinctively, she angled her back to Trenton, clutching the receiver. Outside the window, the yellow coneflowers were waving in the grass.

“Hello?” she said. And again: “Hello?”

“Who is it?” Trenton said, from the floor.

Nothing but the sound of breathing. Minna felt the up-and-down roll of nausea. It had been here, on this spot, that her father had held her all those years ago and shown her the snow, which fell like a secret between them. Now he was dead and she was getting old.

“Hello?” she repeated one more time. The wave of nausea had brought with it a sudden crystallization of anger. And she knew. Knew it was a woman on the phone—knew it was that woman. Adrienne.

“Who is it?” Trenton said again.

Minna ignored him. She gripped the phone so tightly her knuckles ached.

“Listen,” she said, and swallowed, wishing her throat weren’t so dry. “Listen,” she tried again. “Don’t call here anymore.”

“Who is it?” Trenton grunted a little, sitting up.

“He’s dead,” Minna said. Was it her imagination, or did the woman suck in a breath? She wished she could tunnel down the wires and watch the words take their effect, spitting like small barbed things directly into the woman’s flesh. “He’s dead, and he left nothing for you. So don’t call anymore.”

Then she hung up, slamming the receiver, feeling the impact all the way to her elbow.

ALICE

At night, the house falls into silence. It’s a relief. It has been many years since I’ve shared the house with so many people, and I’ve forgotten how exhausting it can be: to be filled with so much motion and so many needs, so much sound and tension. It’s like the arthritis that swelled my joints in my old age and brought painful awareness to the parts of my body I had always safely ignored.

Do we dream? No. We don’t sleep. There isn’t any need for it. The body is solid, its corners intact—it doesn’t need to be restored.

On the other hand, and especially at night, there are certain times of drift. There are moments when the house, the body, has gone still, when we are full of empty air, when nothing needs our attention. Then, sometimes, ideas converge: memory and present, wish and desire, silhouette shadows of people we have been or have known. This is the closest we come to dreaming.

What is now the study was once the sitting room, which became the living room, as times and fashions changed. There was a yellow-and-white loveseat that Ed hated. He traded it, later on, for a couch in green plaid we covered in plastic, so the upholstery wouldn’t fade. There was a wireless set we eventually moved into the cellar, to make room for our television, and a faded rug we replaced, when Ed retired, with nubby gray wall-to-wall carpeting: the newest thing. I used to walk it in my bare feet when he wasn’t at home, pacing all the way to the corners, kneading my toes against the fabric, marveling at the look of it.

This was progress. This was modernity: you could cover over the past completely. You could bury the old under a relentless surface of new, stretched from corner to corner.

That’s what I return to again and again, no matter how many times I think about it: how naive we were, how we believed in the promise, how we believed the past could be kept down. No. More than that—how we believed in a future that was distinct from the past.

We had bookshelves. Ed liked books, although he didn’t read them. He was sensitive about his background, and careful, in public, never to betray the fact that he hadn’t finished high school. He liked to collect things that made up for his childhood, as though the weight of his possessions would somehow hurtle him forward into a new life.

Maybe that’s why he was obsessed with the railroad. Ed liked to talk in front of company about the architecture of our country, and the way it was written in railroads and highways: pistons moving forward, spokes and wheels rolling over a landscape of natural obstacles, chugging headfirst into the future. That was what Ed did his whole life: push, and push, and push.

Ed kept a slim volume of nineteenth-century railway maps, which he had bought for ten cents at an old flea market in Buffalo, displayed proudly on the top shelf. He insisted it not be moved, touched, or even dusted.

This was one of the first secrets I kept from him: when he was gone, I would move the little footstool, climb up to reach the top shelf, take down the book, and read it.

At first it was simply rebellion. But it quickly became more than that. There was something sad about the illustrations, the tracks stitching the land, like a body that had been sewn up after a terrible accident: it was the very attempt to connect that made it ugly.

Thomas and I liked to look at maps together. Even now, when I see the large-bundled volumes on Richard Walker’s shelf, or the cardboard map that leans against the bookshelf, I can’t help but think of Thomas, and the way we used to trace our fingers over the contours of the pages, following suggested routes, and feeling in our fingertips the possibility of escape.